


He Is Smouldering (Is He Mine?)

by PennyPound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, John "Three Continents" Watson, John can be hot, M/M, Not just jumpers and fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyPound/pseuds/PennyPound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has seen everything about John there is to see, or so he thinks. Then he meets Three Continents Watson, John's one night stand face. He's nothing like John, he is predator where John is patience, he's tight black tee shirts and jeans where John is comfy jumpers and corduroy slacks, grace and charming wit as opposed to calm and quiet intelligence. He's there and gone and Sherlock hates him because he looks at Sherlock like Sherlock wants John to look at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Is Smouldering (Is He Mine?)

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked.

The low lighting and the thrumming bass have Sherlock's teeth on edge. He clutches his brandy and fake smiles at another woman (early thirties twice divorced with an online gambling habit) and smoothes out another excuse (fifth of the night), as to why no, I'm so sorry I really am, I'd love to but my partner, he'll be here soon, I don't want to miss him until she finally loses interest and wanders off. He sighs and grits his teeth, glancing around again. The suspect (Jason Callhoun, 42, suspected serial killer, owns three cats) is already here, but where is John? If he doesn't appear soon they'll miss their chance to catch him for another month.

Five more minutes pass and Sherlock's leg is almost bouncing, he's silently seething, when a commotion occurs. The area around his target is a flurry of activity, giggles and low apologies lost to the throb of the music.

Turning to watch, the detective catches a glimpse of broad shoulders, muscled back and narrow waist before the gap in the crowd closes. Snarling to himself and cursing John's tardiness, Sherlock stands and circles around to find a better veiwing spot. A laugh breaks through the barrier of lyrics, and he finds himself craning his head, looking for a flash of greying blonde in the crowd (seven, none of them John's length or style) before returning to the dwindling group with his murderer in the middle.

He's dancing with someone now. The same broad shoulders of the man before. He can only see his back (strong, muscular) and... and his arse. Sherlock finds himself hung up on that arse, his eyes glued to the way the fabric (dark blue jeans, perfectly tight) hug and highlight it. When the man turns sideways Callhoun slips forward, he's taller (about my height) and fits perfectly against the back of the smaller man, one arm winding around the (trim) waist, the other hand settling on a hip. Sherlock still can't see the newcomer's face, he doesn't turn, instead lifting his arms (tee shirt sleeve riding up, RAMC tattoo on... left... arm... Military, five foot six, blonde, JOHN!?) and arching (beautifully) back to snag Callhoun's head and draw him down to whisper in his ear.

Sherlock isn't sure how he managed to cut through the crowd as quickly as he did (not part of the plan...) but suddenly he was there, right there, in front of John (black really did look good on him, that shirt is glorious, shows off all his muscles, clings and hangs just right) and angry (or jealous, not sure, must look it up). John turns to look up at him, still dancing (swaying, rippling) and smirks, eyes dragging up and down Sherlock's body (trails of fire in their wake) before Callhoun runs his lips across the back of John's neck (My John). Looking up at Callhoun with a laugh (low, sultry designed to entice) John slips away (hidden behind an imposter I didn't know was there) and into the crowd in the direction of the loo.

  
Sherlock stands there, dazed and confused (John left (part of the plan, 'lead him to the bathroom', 'and do what?', 'I don't care, just keep him there long enough for me to get to his jacket.', 'Alright, alright.', 'Can you do that John? You're not gay-', 'Enough Sherlock Jesus! I got it.') but John left. With another man (John's not gay!) looking like he's going to suck him off in the toilets) while Callhoun brushes past him.

The detective blinks when he's jostled by a younger couple and twists to locate the jacket. He hurries over, riffles quickly through the contents and locates the evidence (third and fourth victim's blood on first victim's left sock), snaps a picture, texts Lestrade, and rushes off to find John (they can't, John is MIne!).

  
By the time he makes it to the gent's, John is sitting on Callhoun (middle of the back, arm twisted around and up, one leg across back of thighs) and hissing in his ear (sounds like threats). When the doctor glances up and sees Sherlock, he gives him a grim smile (His John! Not the smoldering stranger with eyes that promise heat and sweat but nothing else).

"This works right?"

"Yes, that works."

"Lestrade?"

"On his way."

"Good."

Sherlock doesn't ask John about that moment on the dance floor (the look in his eyes). He doesn't ask where he learned to act like that (like I am more desirable than the muscled construction worker pressed against his back). Sherlock never forgets it (saved in triplicate) but he never says anything.

**Author's Note:**

> So, first fanfiction published on here but not the first written. Comments and feedback are more than welcome, they're begged for actually.


End file.
